BUTCHER: Wolves MC (Riding With Wolves Book 3)

by Faith Winslow

  “Wanna get out of here?” he asked.

  “Uh-huh,” I instantly replied. I surprised myself with that one—both by my ability to talk again, and by the affirmative nature of my immediate response.

  Butcher still held onto me with one hand and took hold of his beer with the other. He tossed back a few chugs and finished the thing as if it was a tiny glass of water. He gestured towards my beer, and I shook my head from side to side. I’d already had a few drinks since I arrived at The Boneyard about two hours earlier, and I didn’t need any more booze clouding my judgment (which, in hindsight, I can say was already quite clouded at this point).

  I clung to Butcher’s side, as he led me to the back door, and didn’t know whether to hold my head up high or bow it down when I got dirty looks from chick after chick as we passed them. I’d just made out with Broken Brother’s guitar player, and now I was leaving with him, and I couldn’t tell if their looks were looks of jealousy or warning.

  In any event, when we finally made it out the back door, I was overwhelmed by the fresh air and quiet. It made my head hurt, especially my ears, and kind of caught me off guard and threw me for a loop.

  But, luckily, Butcher was there to catch me. He pulled me closer to him, leaned his head down, and kissed me on the forehead.

  “Your place or mine?” he asked. “Or do you want me to fuck you right here, in the alley?”

  I was seriously considering my options—weighing all three of them against each other—when I heard a familiar wailing. It was Robert Plant’s voice “singing” the opening chant to Led Zeppelin’s Immigrant Song, and it was coming from Butcher’s pocket.

  Without so much as a word, Butcher stepped back from me, reached into his breast pocket, and pulled out his cell phone. He looked at it and shook his head, and then he looked back at me.

  “I’ve got to make a call,” he said. “I’ll be right back.”

  My jaw dropped just a little, but Butcher didn’t see it. He turned around and walked several yards away, as I stood there, surprised by his abandon.

  I watched as Butcher dialed his phone and quietly conducted his conversation. He was only on the phone for a minute or two, but his face expressed about a dozen different emotions, which left me feeling one—complete and utter confusion.

  When Butcher ended his call and started walking back towards me, I smiled and looked at him invitingly. I figured he’d give me some type of answer to clear up my confusion, and I was eager to pick up where we’d left of.

  But when I smiled at Butcher as he approached, Butcher didn’t smile back, and he stopped just short of where I was standing.

  “I’ve gotta go,” he said from about five feet away.

  “Huh?” I asked. My state of confusion had only gotten worse.

  “I’ve got to leave,” Butcher replied, reiterating his sentiment.

  He reached into his pants pocket and pulled out his keys. “Sorry,” he added.

  “But—?” I began before stopping myself. I wanted to say something, but I didn’t know what to say.

  Butcher turned and started heading toward another area in the alley, where a few cars and motorcycles were parked.

  “Some other time,” he said, looking back at me as he stepped up to a Harley.

  “When?” I asked. He was mounting his hog; I wanted to run over and jump on behind him.

  “When?” Butcher asked with a smile. He tilted his head and deliberated for a moment.

  “Tomorrow night,” he said a few seconds later, “around ten o’clock. Ever heard of a bar called Pinky’s?”

  “Yeah,” I replied, lying. I’d never heard of Pinky’s—but there was no doubt I’d find out about it—and there was no doubt I’d meet him there if he wanted me to meet him.

  “Tomorrow night, ten o’clock,” Butcher repeated in summary. “I’ll see you at Pinky’s.”

  “Alright,” I responded as he revved his engine. The sound of it was loud, and it shook my already-shaking body.

  Butcher pulled out of his parking spot and drove off in a hurry, and I stared at him like a smitten schoolgirl as his silhouette faded into the distance.

  On top of being a musician and a super-sexy hunk, Butcher just had to be a biker also! His “bad boy” street cred kept adding up, and it was adding up in his favor. Even if it was a little cliché, he left me pining over him like a “good girl” in a romance movie or novel, and I was excited to see how our storyline played out.

  As excited as I was, I was also fearful. Those movies and novels were always filled with twists and turns, and when it came to my personal life, I’ve never been too fond of surprises.

  Chapter 4

  ~ Butcher ~

  “Another Bone-Rattling Night at The Boneyard,” the headline read. I rolled my eyes and grunted.

  My friend and biker brother, Hammer, had just handed me a copy of one of the many shitty newspaper rags Pinky’s keeps on hand for its morning and afternoon customers.

  “Like there’s nothing better going on in L.A.,” I said, turning from Hammer to the short “news” story. I couldn’t wait to see what this “A. Windsor” joker had to say about my band now.

  “As usual, Broken Brother gave a gem of a performance,” the small-time journalist wrote. “But that gem was heirloom. The band’s set consisted exclusively of covers, which, though flawlessly executed and played with passion, lacked the originality and appeal that this reporter has come to expect from the band.”

  “Whatever,” I said, slamming the newspaper down on the counter, then slamming my hand down on top of it. This “reporter” had a lot of nerve, I tell ya!

  “Not gonna finish reading the whole thing?” Hammer asked. He and I were members of the same gang, the Wolves, and had known each other for years—and he knew damn well I wasn’t.

  “Any publicity is bad publicity, as far as I’m concerned,” I said, looking at the clock on the wall. It was four thirty in the afternoon, not even twenty-four hours after our show, and I’d been too busy with other things to care, or notice, that it had been covered until just then… thanks to Hammer.

  We’d met up for a quick drink to discuss business, and he made it a point to give me the newspaper before we started. He was giving me the heads-up as much as he was rubbing it in my face, but nonetheless, I guess I was better off for having been made privy to it. (I guess.)

  “I don’t want Broken Brother in the papers,” I went on. “And maybe, now that we’re ‘heirloom’ and ‘unoriginal,’ this Windsor punk will stop writing about us.”

  “Maybe, maybe not,” Hammer said, being honest. “If you really wanna stay out of the headlines, you know what your safest bet is?”

  I rolled my eyes, grunted again, and fought back to urge to punch Hammer.

  “Stay off of the stage,” he continued. “Lay low. You have so much else going on. Take a break.”

  “Music is my break,” I quickly fired back, grabbing my bottle. “I need it.”

  Hammer didn’t say anything in reply, and he remained silent for a moment.

  “I heard you had a late night last night,” he finally remarked, changing the subject and breaking the silence.

  “Sure did,” I replied. Then, I took my turn to change the subject.

  “But that’s not what we’re here to talk about. Now, is it?” I said. “I have some things I still need to take care of today, and I have plans for later tonight. So if ya don’t mind, can we just skip over all the chit-chat for now and get down to business?”

  Hammer sighed and nodded his head. You have to understand, it’s usually not like me to be so dismissive, direct, or rude. However, what I said was true—as well as what Hammer had said. I did have a lot going on in my life; I had had a late night the night before; and there still was much I had to do, including my “date” with Lexi. I didn’t have time—or energy—to waste, and we both knew it.

  “Alrighty then,” Hammer answered. He took a drink from his bottle, finished what was left of his beer, and motioned
to the bartender for another.

  Once the bartender delivered Hammer’s beer, Hammer and I went on to talk about the business that had called us to Pinky’s in the first place. We were both pretty high up in the ranks of our gang and were working on a few different projects, or “agendas,” together, and we got together every couple days to discuss our progress.

  On this particular day, however, we really didn’t have much progress to share with each other, which was both a good and bad thing. It was good because it meant I’d get out of Pinky’s a little earlier. However, it was bad because it meant we were no closer to achieving our goals, and some of our goals were very important, time-sensitive, and pressing.

  What types of goals were we trying to achieve? Well, there were several, and they all seemed to be tangled together. However, at the bottom line, for the time being, our top priority was to run damage control and look into some things that’d already happened.

  Over the past year or so, a series of unfortunate gang-related events had befallen some of our other high-ranking members, and we needed to get to the bottom of things before our organization was further affected, shaken up, or dismantled.

  But as I said, we really didn’t have much progress to share with each other on this particular day. So, instead, we discussed our ongoing game plan and updated each other on what we intended to do over the next few days.

  It may not have been the most informative meeting ever, but it was necessary, and overall, beneficial. And it got a few beers into me on my way home from work, which was a welcomed pause in my day.

  It was about five forty-five when Hammer and I ended our discussion, and as soon as we were done, I chugged the rest of my beer and stood up to leave.

  “So…what are these plans you have for this evening?” Hammer asked, as I put on my leather jacket. He reached over and picked up the newspaper he’d given me earlier and pushed it against my chest. “Got another show tonight for your buddy Windsor to cover?”

  “Nope,” I replied, taking the paper from him. I don’t know why, but I folded the thin periodical in half and shoved it in my interior jacket pocket.

  “I got a date,” I added with a big smile.

  “Huh?” Hammer asked, surprised. He nearly spit beer out of his mouth.

  “I’m meeting a girl here in a few hours,” I explained. “I met her after the show last night, before…before I had to leave.”

  “And you’re seeing her tonight?” Hammer asked, raising his eyebrows at me.

  I nodded in response to his redundant question.

  “Wow,” Hammer replied, gesturing for another beer. “So…John ‘The Butcher’ Crane actually made plans to go out with a woman he met at one of his shows? There’s some groupie who’s gonna get more than a one-nighter?”

  I grabbed my keys and phone and huffed at Hammer. “Shut up,” I said in defense.

  “I’m just sayin’,” Hammer responded, “it ain’t like you.”

  Hammer had a good point. (He usually did.) For various reasons, I wasn’t really big on dating women from my shows or committing to them for any amount of time—other than however long it took to get my rocks off. I had too much else going on in my life, and there wasn’t room for any more complications.

  So whenever I met a girl at one of my shows, I usually met her for only one purpose—and once I accomplished that purpose, I was done with her. As Hammer had said, it wasn’t like me to give a gal more than one night, or to make plans to see her.

  “Well, forgive me for acting out of character,” I said sarcastically. “But I didn’t even get to fuck her yet. We were just about to leave last night when I got the call, so—”

  “So tonight is about finishing what you started?” Hammer interrupted with a devious grin.

  “Exactly,” I answered instinctively—even though every part of me felt like I was lying.

  “Have fun,” Hammer said, turning towards his beer. I sensed the slightest tinge of jealousy in his voice. Up until recently, he’d been the biggest player I’d ever known, and over the years I’d taken a few pages out of his book. But a few months back, he simmered down and settled down with one lady—and since then, sometimes his mouth would water just a little whenever me or some of the other guys talked about landing some random pussy.

  “I will,” I replied, backing away from my stool. My response was just as instinctive this time, but now, it felt honest. I was really looking forward to my date with Lexi and knew I would have a good time, whether or not we finished what we started.

  I’d barely had a chance to talk to the girl and hadn’t spent that much time with her, but still, even though our exposure was limited, there was something about her that I liked, something that stuck with me and made me want—more than anything—to see her again.

  I don’t know exactly what it was, but whatever that “something” was, it had me kinda hooked on Lexi. And now I was on the line for at least four more hours, until ten o’clock rolled around and she reeled me back into Pinky’s.

  Chapter 5

  ~ Lexi ~

  Pinky’s.

  I had no idea where Pinky’s was and had never heard of the place before, let alone been there. But I’m a smart girl, and I know how to do my research—although I am a little ashamed to admit how quickly I did it.

  No sooner was Butcher out of sight than I grabbed my cell phone and typed “Pinky’s” into my search engine bar. In less than a second, a long list of hits came up, and I started reading through them, until I found all that I needed to know. I found Pinky’s address, some reviews of the place, and a few photos.

  I was pleased with my results, so I shut down my browser. Then I went to my contacts list, looked up the cab company, and phoned in my order for a ride.

  Yep. That’s how quickly I did my research. I looked up Pinky’s for tomorrow before I set up my way home for tonight.

  Classic.

  In any event, it took about twenty minutes for my cab to arrive, and I spent the whole while thinking about what had just happened with Butcher. The way he sped off and left me was mysterious and intriguing, but it was also kind of offensive and disturbing. It made me feel a little disregarded or tossed aside, as if even after the brief intimacy we’d shared, I still simply didn’t matter.

  But at the same time, even though he left me, Butcher left me with plans. When he left me, he arranged to see me the next night—and that was saying something, wasn’t it?

  Plus, I didn’t know why he left me anyway. It could have been for any variety of reasons, and even though he was aloof, he deserved the benefit of the doubt. Didn’t he?

  Ah, so many questions! And once the cab got there, it didn’t make matters any better. The cab driver was quietly listening to the radio as he drove me home, and it was set to a classic rock channel. In the half hour or so it took to get from The Boneyard to my place, I heard two songs on the radio that Broken Brother had performed that evening, and I was hit with another set of questions.

  Broken Brother had only played covers, and I wondered why. Why didn’t they play any of their original songs? Had they given up on that part of their act? Was the band starting to fall apart or lose interest in the scene?

  By the time I got home, my head was spinning with both thoughts of the old songs Broken Brother had played and the new developments between Butcher and me. I went to bed somewhat of a mess, feeling torn and confounded. And when I woke in the morning, I didn’t feel much better, but nonetheless, I did my best to collect—and separate—my thoughts so that I could go about my day.

  Perhaps some of my personal thoughts and emotions seeped over into my work, which was inevitable, I guess. But, really, I did try as hard as I could to make sure they didn’t, so that I could be loyal to myself and my profession at the same time.

  For the most part, I think I succeeded, and I managed to put truly tiring thoughts of Butcher out of my head for most of the day. But when the end of my work day came around and I looked at the clock, my thoughts immediat
ely returned to him, and it was as if I was still standing there behind The Boneyard, pining over him as he drive off. I was still smitten, and I’d merely kept myself distracted for a (short) while.

  My commute home from work seemed like the longest commute ever, though it gave me some time to think about my wardrobe for the evening. From what I’d seen of Pinky’s on my phone’s browser, it was a biker dive bar, so anything would’ve passed. However, I wanted to look good for Butcher, and I needed to decide what “good” meant.

  It was nearly seven when I finally got home and made it to my closet, and as I worked my way through the hangers and shelves, I got a little worried and resented the fact that I hadn’t done laundry in several days.

  Eventually, however, I found a “little black dress” at the back of my closet. I hadn’t worn it in ages and had pretty much forgotten about it, but given its short length, low neckline, and flattering fit, I knew that it would do the trick.

  I tossed the dress down on my bed and went off to the bathroom to freshen up, and, within an hour, I was ready to leave. I called the cab company around eight thirty to order a car and ended up sitting around for another hour before it came.

  It was a Saturday night in L.A., and I’d been a commuter here for the past six years, since I first came out to California after graduating college. I should have known better and called the cab company earlier than I did. But, come on now, I wasn’t thinking straight!

  Traffic was a bitch, and I didn’t get to Pinky’s until twelve minutes after ten (on the nose). I jumped out of the cab the moment I recognized the neon sign I’d seen online, and I held myself back from sprinting to the door. I knew that I wasn’t running that late, but Butcher was still a wild card, and I didn’t know if he’d jump the gun.